Memory Man
by ThePreciousHeart
Summary: John Gammell has had more rewarding friendships than this one. But how can he turn down the opportunity? No matter where they go, there will always be another John G. One shot, first person POV from Teddy's perspective, set early in the stages of Teddy and Leonard's working relationship. Major spoilers for the movie.


I placed the call, of course. It's important to take the upper hand when dealing with a guy like him. Assert your dominance, you know. Told him to wait for me at the café just around the corner- a nice place, one where he'll feel comfortable talking to me. Comfort's a big deal for both of us, whether he knows it or not.

I'd parked myself pretty close to the café- not close enough to look suspicious, but just close enough so it won't take forever for me to get there. Don't want him forgetting why he's come while I'm still driving and possibly running away- although I figure he's written himself a note about it. He better have, anyway. I can't wrap my mind around what it must be like to function using those little scraps of paper alone.

As I'm driving, the usual thought comes into my head- _why the hell do you keep coming back?_ And at the moment, I have no way to answer that.

I pull up to the curb and there he is, all fresh-faced and well-groomed like usual. I don't want to think about how long it takes to get him looking that great in the morning. It's hard enough for me even without the memory issues. He's got this real pensive look on his face, probably wondering where I am or maybe who he's waiting for. Pen behind the ear, paper in hand, and bleached blond hair- he proved remarkably resistant when I tried to convince him to dye it again. It's actually surprising how stubborn a sap like him can be. Maybe his wife preferred it that way or something. I just wish his sentimentality didn't put us at such a risk, but, well, what can ya do.

His eyes land on me as I get out of the car, staring at me as if he's never seen me before in my life. It's kind of unsettling when you think about it. I hold out my hand as I approach. "Mr. Shelby." Sometimes it's better to lead with a formal address, or else he can guess that we've met before.

"Officer Gammell?" he says, stuffing the piece of paper he'd been studying into his pocket. Looks like I was right- he did write himself a note.

I put on this big, cheery smile and we shake. "You remember me." I know he doesn't, but it's best not to act like I know too much. Keeps him off-guard. Sure enough, he shakes his head regretfully. So polite. "I'm afraid not. You… you do know about my condition?"

"Yeah, sure. Your memory, right?"

He nods, and then informs me very straightforwardly, "It's not amnesia. I can't make new memories. I remember everything about my past, but… I can't remember how I got here, or what I did this morning. Everything just… fades. Fifteen minutes from now, I won't remember who you are or how this conversation began."

I pat his shoulder. He's not really receptive to touch, usually, but again, I have to play my role as the blundering cop. He doesn't know how well I've come to read him. "Well, let's not waste your fifteen minutes on any explanations." As long as I don't have to hear about Sammy fucking Jankis again.

We enter the café and take a seat at a table near the end. It's half-past noon, and I know that shitty motel he's laid up in doesn't have much in the way of food services, so I make sure he orders himself something edible. Gotta keep an eye on him sometimes. Playing the mother hen can be exhausting, but killing isn't done well on an empty stomach.

After the waitress swings by, I take out my files and push them over to him. Asserting my dominance again. It's essential when working with a loose cannon. "Here's the information you asked for, Mr. Shelby."

"Just call me Leonard," he says, and even offers me a half-hearted smile. I know, however, that his attention is focused entirely on the files.

"All right, Lenny." _Lenny._ Maybe it's not nice to mess around with a freak like him, but I still get a kick out of it. Gets a rise out of him every time.

Sure as hell, he grimaces right away. "No, Leonard. My wife called me Lenny… I hated it."

"Leonard. Okay." Gotta wonder what kind of a person his wife was, anyway. He doesn't really talk about her in that way, and autopsy reports generally don't reveal personalities. Just plain, hard facts.

Soon his head is buried in the files I handed him, so deep that he doesn't even notice when the waitress brings us our drinks, or when I give her a little wink. She's pretty- too bad we won't be staying in this town for very long. Not long enough to get some action, anyway.

I stay quiet and let Leonard read the files, until he jerks his head up suddenly, like he's stumbled across some vital information. Or like his brain's reset itself again.

"Something wrong, memory man?"

Even after spending so much time with him, that blank look in his eye always gets me. It's spooky, like a new person has just taken over his body. Definitely a reset, then. There's that mild-mannered politeness in his voice again, but I can still see him concealing his alarm. "I'm sorry, I… don't believe I know…"

"It's okay, Lenny." Who the hell wants to go by _Leonard_ anyway? "I'm with the police. I'm here to help you find your wife's killer."

I spy a trace of doubt in his eyes, but it's wiped out once he glances at that tattoo on his hand. _Remember Sammy Jankis._ The first of many. I've never been there to see him get one, but I'm familiar with the aftermath.

"Sorry." He gives me that half-hearted smile again, and then reaches for his camera. "Must have lost my train of thought. Have I… taken your picture yet?"

"Nope." This is the part I always hate. All those photos he takes of me, and I never look good in a single one of them. The flash goes off, and he goes through the motions I've seen a million times, taking the photo out and methodically flapping it in the air. It must be that muscle memory the doctors talk about, because he does it every time, like he's been taking Polaroids for his whole life.

"You can put me down as Bruce." Now this is the risky part- having to avoid the questions. If only he knew just how safe it is for me to use a fake name. Not only in case that Polaroid falls into the wrong hands, but also because he'd probably have half a mind to incriminate _me_ if he knew my birth name. I'd laugh about it myself, but I've seen him kill before, and there's no way I'd ever wish to be on the receiving end of it. At least I get to have a little fun, sticking new monikers to the same persona over and over again.

He looks at me. " _Officer_ Bruce?"

"Nope," I say, shaking my head. "Actually I'm undercover. Technically I'm not supposed to be giving you this information, but when I heard your story I just had to help you out. You can keep a secret, can't you, Lenny?"

He contemplates this, and then laughs shortly. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?" He gestures ruefully to his head, and I chuckle along, while relief fills me. Thank god I'm off the hook this time- it's not every day he takes it so easily.

"Did I tell you how my wife called me Lenny?"

"No." I fight the snicker from escaping me, the grin from stretching across my face. _Only the first hundred times._

"I hated it." He nonchalantly takes the pen from behind his ear, uncaps it, and captions my newly-developed picture. "Pleased to meet you, Bruce." In no time at all he's gone back to the files.

Because I don't want him to just sit there reading the same paragraph over and over- look, I might not treat the guy right all the time, but I do have a heart- I decide to summarize for him. "We've uncovered evidence that supports your theory. There was a second guy who attacked you- the guy who killed your wife."

"I always thought so," he breathes, and it's kind of satisfying, in a way, to see his opinion validated like that. Even though the so-called "evidence" is complete BS. At least he likes to believe it.

"There are some pages missing in my files... Did you manage to recover any of them?"

I shake my head. He's probably torn them out himself, burned them along with all those old Polaroids. And all that junk of his wife's, though I know for a fact he's still hauling around a bunch of it.

"'Fraid not. But I think we've got a real lead here. There's a guy in this town by the name of Johnny Gibson. He's involved in a lot of petty crime…"

At the very sound of the guy's name, he comes alight, sitting up straighter in his seat. He's got this look of hungry intensity to his face, the look I generally only see on him when he's getting ready to kill someone, or when he's basking in the afterglow of revenge. Basically he only wears this expression when the asshole we're looking for is mentioned- no matter who the guy actually is.

"John G," he says, and I swear, in his voice the name's a goddamn curse. He says it like normal people talk about disease, like just speaking the name will infect him.

The waitress comes back and hands us our meals, but once again Leonard's not paying much attention. He stares not at his plate, but at the files before him. "Is there enough evidence to convict him?"

"We can't prove anything yet." This at least is partially true. I could always conduct the investigation on my own time and only call Leonard in at the crucial moment, but like I've said- I know him. I know he likes the chase, just as much as a dog likes to chase squirrels. He might not always know why he's helping me, and it can be risky to show his face at times, but he enjoys it so much I can't very well leave him in the backseat.

"But that's what I'm here for. To help you find him." I smile. "And you can even help me out too. We'll get this guy, Leonard- I promise."

He smiles back at me, and it's not so half-hearted as before, but there's still… something off about it. Something hollow and cheap, like a paper lantern bought as a party decoration that can only be lit once before the wick burns out and it's useless.

I wonder how long it is until he resets again.

I pick up the sandwich I've ordered and take a bite. He looks down at the meatloaf in front of him, and for a moment I think he's actually going to eat in my presence, but he just pokes at it a bit with his fork before glancing through the files again. No wonder he's so good at enacting his little revenge fantasy- he's got the most severe one-track mind I have ever seen.

So I have to ask myself again, _why do you keep coming back?_ Why do I keep saddling myself with this flipped-out freak who can't even get up in the morning without having to refer to his little notes? What are we doing out here in one shithole town after another, putting dents in their crime waves and then fleeing before we can be traced?

The answer's easy now. Because unlike Leonard, I remember the day that we found his wife lying dead on the sofa in her own home. I remember the pathetic way he clung to her and wept, how many times he asked over and over where she was and what was going on as I drove him off to the station.

And I remember the joy on his face when he pointed to the place on his chest where he wanted his next tattoo to go, his eyes wide and crazed from the adrenaline rush. He could have drawn that tattoo onto himself using the blood that stained his hands. I have to remember, because I snapped a picture of that moment, using his own camera no less. Still got it too- one of the few photos that escaped the flames that time around.

Leonard's not as tough a guy as he likes to think he is. Truth is, he can't get around without my help. And I can't stand seeing him all mopey and depressed like he was the day I met him, and every day after when he was in the psychiatric hospital. So if it makes him happy, _and_ helps me get my job done, how can I possibly turn him down?

Across the table, I watch as he reaches into his pocket and takes out the jumble of Polaroids that he constantly keeps with him. There shouldn't be many of them yet- just his car, the run-down motel, and my own mug. He shuffles through them in quick precision, stopping on the one of me.

Just as I suspected- he's reset again.

"Bruce?" He looks up at me, and that's when I know I've outstayed my welcome. These chats of ours have to be brief- I hate having to go through the introductions all over again. I smile and nod, hopefully the picture of trustworthiness. He looks like he believes me, but then again, he could be faking it. Just like he tries to fake recognition, not knowing how easily I see through it.

"C'mon, Leonard." I stand up and search for the waitress. If he's not going to eat now, I'm certainly not going to force him. Hopefully he'll have the sense to get something once he's hungry. "Our work here is done."

But I know, on the contrary, that our work here is only just beginning.


End file.
